


She Got the Power in Her Hand (to shock you like you won't believe)

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bethyl Smut Week August 2016, F/M, Femdom, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: First time with Beth like this, Daryl isn't sure how to handle any of it. Fortunately Beth knows exactly how to handle him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another thing I wrote back in August for Bethyl Smut Week, now AO3-compliant. Written with [this gif](http://ckgckgckg.tumblr.com/post/149307245074/dynamicsymmetry-in-case-youre-still-interested) as prompt.
> 
> I never gave this thing a title back when I posted it on Tumblr and tonight I was at a loss as to what to call it, until I remembered that [this song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=MmZexg8sxyk) existed and it was like oh yeah wow totally 
> 
> ❤️

No one has _ever_ looked at him like this.

No one has ever really looked at him at all, if it comes to that. Every time before now - the few - has been transacted either in the mostly-dark or in a haze of alcohol or both. Groping, fumbling, not especially enjoyable and definitely not memorable. Not something he would care to remember. He put his body on autopilot, and in a way that frankly horrified him once he realized the full nature of what he was doing, he sent his mind away from its housing and slipped into a kind of comforting blankness, where he was aware of what was happening to him but it didn’t ultimately matter anymore.

It’s a skill that years of pain taught him to cultivate. If you can’t make it stop, make yourself not care about it.

His body fucked women. _He_ didn’t. And they sure as hell never looked at him like he was worth a damn.

But now Beth is standing there looking at him as he sits on the edge of the bed, _staring_ at him, and while a few seconds ago he was staring at her as she undressed in front of him - going slow, clearly a bit shy and not quite meeting his eyes - and trying to process the unbelievable _nakedness_ of her, the gentle swell of her hips and the patch of tight curls between her muscular thighs, her flat belly, the bars of her ribs thrown into sharper relief with her breathing and the late afternoon sun, and above them her little tits capped with flushed, erect nipples. She’s so fucking perfect, he’s scared to even touch her with his tingling fingers, like he might ruin her somehow, and he wonders if she has any idea.

Looking at her like he’s never looked at anyone in his life.

But now everything is flipped and she’s the one looking, and it’s not just about his scars, not just about how rough he knows he is and how beaten and weathered and _old_ compared to her perfection. It’s how she’s looking at him like none of that matters, like she’s not even seeing it. Like she’s seeing something else, and she sweeps her tongue across her parted lips and he drops his eyes and can’t fight back a shiver.

Drops his eyes, and like this he ends up looking straight at his dick, standing up so hard, harder than it’s been in maybe years, dark and bobbing as he inhales. Glistening.

What the fuck does he do with his _hands._

His mind doesn’t slip away, but for a few seconds it lets go, and he watches his own hand move to curl around his shaft. He twitches in his palm, shivers again as his eyes slip involuntarily closed, and he hears her pull in a soft gasp.

A stroke, harder twitch, and hot skin brushes the insides of his knees, and he looks up and she’s standing between his legs, hands loose at her sides, her eyes wide. Watching him.

No one has ever looked at him like this, and he’s never touched himself in front of anyone. And it feels so fucking good, and he can’t get over how unafraid he is. Stunned, but unafraid.

Maybe too stunned to _be_ afraid.

Her gaze flicks up to his face. “Can I?”

It takes him a moment to get it. Then the anxiety floods back in and he bites down on the inside of his lips, hand stilling even as his cock pounds blood in his fist. If she. What if she. Christ, he doesn’t even know. It’s just that no one has ever.

She gives him a tiny smile. Nothing false in it. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her smile in any way she didn’t completely mean. “I want to. I wanna touch you.”

It’s not like he could ever say no to her.

His focus shifts down to her hand as he releases himself and grips the sheet, everything tense, breath caught in his throat. If she doesn’t like it, that’s _what if._ No idea why she wouldn’t, but what if she doesn’t. What if she doesn’t like it and then she decides she doesn’t like _him,_ she doesn’t want to do this after all, her smile turns apologetic and she pulls on her clothes and leaves, and he would never dream of trying to stop her but he would pretty much have to die of utter mortification.

Then her warm little hand closes around him, and he can’t think at all.

He catches a glimpse of her, her expression fascinated, tongue once more passing over her lips as she runs her thumb along the vein that snakes up his underside, and then it’s overwhelming and he moans as his eyes force themselves closed again. He shouldn’t move, he _shouldn’t,_ if he moves he might freak her out or something, but all he wants to do now is rock his hips up and thrust into her fist. Show her that it’s good, _she’s_ good, she’s so fucking good even if she’s hardly _done_ anything, and he whispers her name.

The smile in her voice is audible when she speaks. “Lay back.”

His eyes snap open and he studies her, confused. This is unexpected. She doesn’t sound even vaguely timid anymore. She sounds like she knows precisely what she wants, and she’s looking at him like she fully expects to get it.

“Beth, what’re you-”

“Lay back,” she says again, places a knee on the bed by his hand and leans over him, steadying herself on his shoulder and pushing at him, and he’s sliding backward, lowering himself to his elbows and just about panting. She doesn’t loosen her hold on him as she follows him, coming to rest straddling his thighs.

He lays a hand on her leg. Otherwise he can’t move.

“I want… I wanna make you come.” Her voice is low, not completely confident, but as she continues it’s getting there. She gives him a slow stroke and a whimper escapes him. “I wanna watch you. Can I do that?”

Words. He needs to answer her. He doesn’t have any. He drops his gaze to his cock, her hand, sliding up to tug his foreskin back and spilling a shining drop of precome down her knuckles.

He manages a nod, and she smiles wider and starts.

He’s not sure how long he can keep watching her. He can’t look away. She’s a little clumsy, how she’s handling him, and he wonders hazily how often she’s done this - if she’s _ever_ done this - but it doesn’t matter. She’s surging rising waves of pleasure over him, tightening and loosening her grip, stroking up to pull his foreskin over the head and then down to the base to toy with his balls, cradling them in her palm. She’s rapt, glowing, so beautiful with her hair tumbling loose and golden around her slender shoulders and her cheeks and chest flushed pink, and his abdominal muscles flutter in time with the light at the edges of his vision.

“Beth, I… Ah, _shit_.” His upper arms give way and he drops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and gasping through bared teeth. It’s going to be fast, _too_ fast, because this is nearly unbearable and he doesn’t want it to end. No one. No one’s ever. When he jerks off it’s _nothing_ like this. It’s nothing this sweet, this full and burning in his core, so hard he’s hurting. He never wants it to go on and on, never frantically grasps at anything he can to slow it down, but she’s speeding up, finding a firm rhythm, and it’s impossible to ask her to ease off.

She said she wanted to make him come.

“I’m gonna.” He squeezes his eyes shut, every muscle coiling up. “Beth, Jesus fuckin’ _Christ,_ you’re gonna make me- I’m-”

“Do it,” she murmurs, and he forces his eyes open and wrenches upward with a strangled yell, watching it shoot out of him in thick spurts that reach his ribs, across his trembling belly, spilling over her fingers.

He’s never really watched himself come, either.

It’s a mild revelation.

Her slick hand is still moving, slowing but not releasing him, and it’s rapidly fading into something sharper that dances along the edge of pain. He digs his nails into the top of her thigh, shuddering.

“ _Fuck…_ Stop, it’s-”

“Hold still.”

He does, mouth open and shocked, because for the moment he’s not capable of doing anything else.

She’s clamping her legs tighter against his, jerking him in smooth, even motions, gaze locked on what she’s doing with her lower lip caught between her teeth. It’s not that she doesn’t know what this feels like, he realizes with another violent shudder; she knows and she doesn’t care, or she cares but not in a way that inclines her to take pity on him, and he squirms as a jagged whine rips out of him, pulling at the sheet so hard he wonders dimly if he might tear it.

He’s not holding still.

He’s also not trying to stop her anymore.

She’s plucking his nerves like over-tightened guitar strings, and he twists into an arch, sobbing her name, collapsing to stare up at her again. That sweet little smile is playing around the corners of her mouth, her free hand between her legs, and he sees that the curls of her pubic hair are glistening just as much as his, the lips of her pussy swollen and wet as she plays with them and slides up to press against her clit. A moan pushes out of her and he laughs shakily, not because it’s funny but because he can’t stand it - it _hurts_ and he almost thinks he could come again, watching her touching herself as she tortures him simply because she can.

And somehow he’s fine with being tortured.

But it _is_ torture. He writhes under her hand, his sobs constant, begging her to stop and not meaning it and hoping to Christ she knows that, and she rubs her clit in lazy circles and sighs happily, her head lolling back and her mouth falling open. It’s clear, the point at which she intends to let him go, and at least she doesn’t appear to be truly stretching it out; she’s moving gradually faster, her hips rolling, her lips gliding wet across his balls.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and the tendons stand out in her neck and he wants to fucking cry. “Daryl- It’s so good- _Daryl_.” She bucks forward, her waist lengthening as she arches her spine into a graceful curve, and at last she stills her other hand and he can focus on what he’s seeing, _gorgeous,_ a soft cry welling in her and spilling over like his come.

She slumps. Uncurls her hand and sinks down to lie on top of him, head on his chest and her damp hair tickling his face, everything between and around them sticky and shaking.

Finally he lifts his hands and settles them against her back, and breathes with her as they drift.

“Holy _shit,_ ” she whispers after a little while, and he smiles against the crown of her head.

“Yeah.”

Another few heaving breaths, and she raises herself slightly and looks down at him. “Are you… Was that alright?”

He combs her hair away from her face, meets her huge eyes. He still hurts. His softening cock is pinned against her pubic bone and every centimeter she moves, it ripples through him. It’s wonderfully far past _too much._

“That was alright.” He traces the scar on her brow with his thumb. He feels like laughing again. Giggling. “That was so fuckin’ alright.”

She does laugh, quiet, and lowers herself enough to press a kiss to his collarbone. ”I don’t know why I did that.”

“You don’t gotta know.”

“So I can do it again?” She nips him where she kissed him, and he twitches, hissing.

Pulling her closer.

“Can do whatever the hell you want.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” Expansive yawn. He can sympathize, even with every nerve sparking at the ends. “I’m tired.”

He kisses her again, her temple, her cheekbone, her other scar, smelling her sweat and his, her climax and his, strong and deep and maybe the best thing he’s ever smelled. “So sleep.”

“Later, we can…?”

“Told you, girl. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

Fingertips tracing each bump of her spine down to her tailbone and back up. He’s going to touch her later. He’s going to touch her everywhere. Before he fucks her he might pay her back for this, and she might not complain, and he might get to watch her writhing and begging and sobbing his name. And that might be just as good as this was.

All kinds of things they can do together, that he’s never done before.

He’ll want to remember.


End file.
